


This New World

by WatchMeSoar13



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Matthew Lives AU, background canon relationships, tags to be added as story does on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-01-21 02:00:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21291785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatchMeSoar13/pseuds/WatchMeSoar13
Summary: Of all the constancies in his life, Thomas Barrow was perhaps the most surprising. And that was saying a lot.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Had Matthew lived, I think he and Barrow might've had an interesting dynamic, based on their personalities as well as their shared experiences with the war. This is just a series of one-shots spanning the show and possibly what comes after, had things been just a little bit different. 
> 
> Note: I like Henry, I really do. I'm not mad about how things ended on that front, but one has to wonder.

_ “War has a way of distinguishing between the things that matter, and the things that don’t.” _

* * *

There had never been a particular rapport between Matthew and the footman Thomas. Though, from what Matthew could gather, he supposed he should consider himself fortunate that he’d not given the man particular reason to dislike him. In any case, he never would have thought he’d be glad of Thomas’ company. But, he supposed, war changed a man.

* * *

The air vibrated with the aftershocks of the shelling. Matthew ducked in the trenches with his fellow soldiers, some of whom took the chaos in stride--as well as they could--while others were shouting, weeping even as the artillery fire died down. The newly conscripted, poor sods. But they’d all been new and blind, once. 

To his right, two medics crouched amid the chaos to tend a wounded man, the three of them together hunched low and spattered with blood. Matthew, though he knew he really shouldn’t, often found himself watching the stretcher-bearers in brief moments like this. Perhaps it was due to his parents, but he’d always had an interest in medicine. Though out here, it did quite go against one’s instincts, didn’t it? 

He was drawn from his pondering upon realizing that one of the stretcher-bearers was very familiar.

_ “Thomas? It is Thomas, isn’t it?” _

_ The man in question took his presence completely in his stride. “Corporal Barrow now, Mr. Crawley.” _

_ A grin--an honest-to-God smile--drew across Matthew’s face. Damn it all, he was so grateful to see someone familiar. He’d even say elated. _

_ “You’ll never guess where I’ve just been.” _

* * *

Later that week, Corporal Barrow had offered him tea with milk and sugar, and Matthew learned that he could really like the chap, which was not something he expected, especially. He was witty, dry as it all was, and unafraid to let his opinions shine through to a man who was his superior at peace and war alike.

There were, of course, little things that reminded Matthew of Thomas’ reputation. The first being his answer to a very simple question.

_ “Do you ever hear from anyone?” _

_ “Oh yes, Ms. O’Brian keeps me informed.” _

And really, what sort of answer was that?

Then came the topic of transfer--of getting oneself sent home. Matthew had felt vaguely unsettled, but thought nothing more of it; indeed, he’d forgotten about it entirely over the next few days. 

* * *

Neither of their companies were set to rotate out anytime soon, and their paths seemed destined to cross over the following weeks. Twice more the two sat in relative peace. Once more did Thomas offer tea, no sugar this time the the condensed milk itself was a godsend. The next--and last--time they’d spent any notable time in one another’s company, Matthew had been walking through the trenches at dusk and came upon Corporal Barrow, leaning against a muddy wall, taking a truly heavy drag from his cigarette, eyes miles away and utterly soaked in blood. Indeed his sleeves up to his elbows was rusty with it, as was a good portion of his chest and left thigh. It was drying up and flaking from his hands and a smear on the exposed skin of his neck.

Matthew had picked up his pace and laid a hand on Thomas’ arm in apprehension.

“Corporal--”

  
“S’not mine, Captain.” 

Nothing left to say, Matthew leaned against the wall beside him, smoked his own cigarette while Thomas finished another three. Matthew’s right shoulder and upper arm pressed solidly against Thomas’ left.

Each of the other half-dozen times he saw Thomas, it was only for a fleeting moment. War was no holiday; they both had their duties. Objectively, the conditions in which he  _ did _ see the other man were horrifying. The setting was grim, and almost always was Thomas carrying what would soon be a corpse.

But strangely, Matthew came to regard these sightings with something like hopeful reverence. Thomas Barrow became an omen--proof of a life that Matthew sometimes feared he’d only dreamed up, and the dull shock of relief he felt when he saw the Corporal rang through him like a bell echoing _ “not dead yet! not dead yet!” _

* * *

Lone gunshots in the middle of the night were not strange, but they always filled Matthew with dread. From his position, he couldn’t tell whether the shot had originated from across No Man’s Land or from within their own trenches, but the rustling of movement further down offered that answer. Matthew followed stiffly, and nearly stumbled when he caught up.

Thomas was quivering in the mud, being swiftly patched up and readied for transport to a workable medical hutch. His hand was truly a horrendous sight. Matthew had of course seen worse, they all had, but he rarely had the time to take a good look. 

He took a knee beside the wounded man and the moment Thomas clapped eyes on him, their odd conversation from weeks ago surged to the forefront of Matthew’s mind. “What have you done?”

Thomas was gasping. “I--I lit a cigarette, sir.” In his eyes, Matthew could detect no lie; but he  _ could  _ read the plea they held as easily as he might’ve read his name. Thomas, in a look, was begging him. Some time later, Matthew would reflect that he should probably be proud that Thomas considered him astute enough that he didn’t bother with the pretense of innocence. Right in the moment, however, all Matthew could think of were the men who had been shot by their own country for attempting similar stunts.

Corporal Barrow regarded him with a steady kind of dread that spoke of conviction, more than hope. By all rights, it wasn’t fair, what he’d done. All men were to fight, and none wished to stay once they got there. What made Thomas Barrow so special that he should get the lucky ticket home? To rid himself of this hellscape and leave the rest of them to rot in the icy inferno? He was running away.

Matthew wished like mad he could do the same.

“Stop the bleeding.” He addressed everyone there, but Barrow. “Is there anything ti use as a tourniquet?” 

A belt--disregarded, probably belonged to a dead man--was situated on Thomas’ upper arm, and he was ready to be moved. Matthew placed a heavy hand on Thomas’ shoulder and squeezed exactly once. Barrow nodded, and let himself be led away.

Matthew was calm. What was the price of a hand, for a life? And he couldn’t explain it, but he also couldn’t deny how relieved he was that Thomas was likely to be at Downton, should Matthew ever make it back home, himself.

Briefly, he considered the merits of a gas burn.


	2. Chapter 2

_ “At the front, the men pray to be spared, of course. But if that’s not to be...they pray for a bullet that kills them cleanly. For too many of them today, that prayer had not been answered.” _

* * *

  
  


Matthew, feeling out of his depth among the wounded, helped where he could in getting the men settled. Mostly, that meant he moved them from stretchers or wheeled chairs into cots. He could admit that he was not prepared for the sight; odd, one would think the sight of such carnage would be familiar by now, but it seemed so out of place here out of danger, out of the mud and muck. He didn’t quite know what to do with himself.

Branson had left some time ago, and Nurse Crawley--both of them, in fact--were running ragged trying to do the job of ten men each. Matthew was heading out the main bay door on yet another mission for hot water when he was nearly bowled over by Cpl. Barrow. “Corporal,” he said, in surprise. 

“Captain Crawley,” the man said in acknowledgement, though his voice was quite without inflection and he didn’t quite meet Matthew’s eyes. Barrow breezed passed him, armful of linens and shoulders squared in stone. 

Matthew didn’t slow in his task, fetching water and returning to the main room. He found Sybil, and made his way to her. She gratefully took the basin and settled things on the table by yet another soldier. Matthew spoke as he helped the man get comfortable. “I see Corporal Barrow made it back to Downton.”

Sybil--Nurse Crawley, rather--almost smiled. “Mama thought it unfair that he recover somewhere else, never mind that this hospital’s for officers. And honestly, he’s been a wonderful help.”

Matthew nodded. He’d seen the man work. “I believe it.” His eyes found the man across the room, wearing the same blank look as he had earlier. In fact, he looked a little grey. “Is he well? Only...” it seemed trivial in a way, asking after a man that was in possession of all his limbs and faculties in the presence of so many who were without, but he couldn’t help it. Barrow would be no help to anyone if he keeled over now. “He looks rather out of sorts.”

Something in Sybil’s face went cold and furious. “In fact, he is unwell, and he has every right to be.”

“I’m sorry?”

Sybil pursed her lips. She pulled him closer, and off to the side, speaking lowly. “Corporal Barrow and I had been treating a young man here, a Lieutenant, and in truth we both came to be very fond of him. Barrow more than I, I’d say.”

There was something in the way she said it that Matthew couldn’t grasp, but he thought nothing more of it at Sybil went on. “I found him,” she stopped, swallowed. “Just two nights ago. He’d slit his wrists in the night.”

Matthew went cold. “My God.”

Sybil shook her head, coming back to the here and now. “I’ll explain more later, but--”

“No, of course.” But he grabbed her arm as she made to walk by him. “I’m sorry. Truly.”

She looked incredibly sad, then, but also mustered with righteous anger. With no malice at all, she said, “Aren’t we all, Captain?” And she left.

Matthew himself should be getting on. He’d been here for more than an hour already, and he was becoming more of a hindrance then a help. Before he left, he looked to Barrow once more from across the room. He was redressing a man’s shoulder, hands sure and countenance draped in shadow. 

* * *

There was very little that drew Matthew’s attention but for the pain in his body, and the pain of his heart. He felt as though everything that gave his life meaning had been ripped from him; no prospects of children, and as he refused to subject any woman to the life of a childless nursemaid, there would be no marriage in his future. Truthfully, he wouldn’t be surprised if Cousin Robert found a more suitable heir. Matthew wouldn’t blame him. 

Matthew didn’t bother with conversation as Dr. Clarkson came by on his rounds and checked his bandages. The good doctor only spoke to let Matthew know what he would be doing, but didn’t push for idle chatter, for which Matthew was grateful. Some minutes into the examination, Sgt. Barrow approached and stood square. “Sargent,” Dr. Clarkson said in greeting.

“Major,” Barrow responded in kind. “I’d hoped to deliver my weekly report, but if it is inconvenient I can come back later.”

“I’d rather hear it sooner than later. In fact,” and here he glanced down at Matthew, “If you don’t abject to lending a hand, could you finish up tending to Captain Crawley while I attend to one more patient?”

“Of course, Major Clarkson.”

“We’ll convene in my office.” And with that, Maj. Clarkson moved on. 

While only moments ago Matthew had been grateful for the doctor's detachment, now he felt not a little like a piece of meat; however, he couldn’t quite summon the energy to be sour as Barrow started tending to his superficial wounds. He was startled when Barrow addressed him directly. “Would it be a kindness or a nuisance, sir, if I asked after your well-being?”

Matthew actually had to laugh at that, just a little bit. “Do you know, you’re the only person who would think to ask that.”

“And yet, I’ve received no answer. Sir.”

It bordered on impertinence--no, in fact, it far surpassed it--but since he’d woken up, everyone had spoken to him like he was on death’s door. Granted, he did feel like it, and he could admit he was as guilty as any of them for bringing morale down; but he hadn’t realized how he’d missed just being talked to, just as a man. Barrow’s neutrality was a welcome change to the somber, sorrowful song everyone else was singing. “Would you consider it a kindness or a nuisance if I were to answer?”

A shallow smirk appeared on Barrow’s face. “I’ve been asked to ask, matter of fact, so it would certainly make things easier for me if I got an answer. But I’m sure I can just make something up if it’ll only make your afternoon worse. This will sting.”

Matthew hardly reacted to the work Barrow was doing on his arm. He’d known worse pain. “Well, you may tell anyone wondering that I’ve not gotten worse. No need to dampen their spirits with a harsh reality, if truly they do care so much.”

Something about Barrow’s expression tightened. “Not so sure you could dampen their spirits any more, sir. William died this morning.”

Cold flooded Matthew, though he’d known it was coming. “How dreadful,” he said at length. “I confess, I feel somewhat responsible.”

“With all due respect, Captain--and I do mean that--don’t make his death about you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“If not you, he’d have jumped in front of someone else. It was in his nature to be unrealistically noble.” It was strange, how Barrow said all this, like he cared and didn’t all at once. He tugged a bandage tight. “And, look, I’m not saying you don’t have right or reason to feel whatever you do, sir, but you might start taking into consideration things you might’ve lost, but didn’t.” He stood up and tidied the area, resettled Matthew’s bed covers as the captain looked on in mild astonishment. In parting, he said, “You’re still breathing. Start there.”


End file.
